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work in the future on the subject of Russia.

The reader

knows already how he set about planning the foundation of this immense achievement.

It could not be said, however, that there were never moments when he really aroused himself from his almost lethargic somnolence. When the post brought to him the gazettes and the journals, and there fell under his eyes the familiar name of some old comrade who had come into notice in the service of the public, or who had made some handsome contribution to science or to literature, a singular anxiety stirred his heart, and a silent, secret complaint at his sluggishness caused his lips to move with an involuntary sigh. Then his life as a backwoods idler caused him grief and shame, and with unusual vividness he recalled to memory the days of his school, that appeared to him in living presence, and before him calmly stood the good Alexander Petrovitch. And the young man's eyes often were filled with tears.

What signified his weeping? Did his soul, awakened by that voice, secretly chiding for its distemper, reveal to him his inner self? That the strong man who had begun to rise in him was tied down, and had not come to maturity? That, in default of overcoming the obstacles and limitations of his youth, he had not attained to that most desirable blessing of greatness and strength for the contest which nature compels? That, heated like metal in the furnace, the rich treasure of noble sentiments of his youth had not reached the degree of incandescence? That his incomparable instructor, his mentor, his Socrates, had, fatally, quitted this low world too soon? That there was no longer on earth a man who was able to raise him up and to inspire again his abilities, nullified by long and sad indecision, or his power to will, deprived of all incentive? That there was no one to throw into his soul, as an awakening cry, the electrical word "Forward!" for which the Russian is hungry, and of which he has need in every degree of the social scale, be he soldier, peasant, clerk, sailor, priest, merchant, statesman, or laborer, serf or Lord, bourgeois or Prince?

JOHN GODFREY SAXE

Ar a meeting of the Alumni Association of Middlebury College, Vermont, in 1842, a young attorney read a poetical satire which at once attracted wide attention and won the highest praise. The theme was Progress. The poem was modeled upon the style of Pope, in its metrical construction, and contained numerous classical allusions and imitations. It was a bright play of wit, from beginning to end, and its polished couplets flashed with happy conceits. It was apparent at once that its author, John G. Saxe, was a master of poetic diction, and a wit with hardly a rival among his American contemporaries.

At this time Mr. Saxe was but thirty years of age, and had enjoyed only a local reputation as a writer of some simple lyrics, abounding in humor. His youth had been passed among the scenes of his native village, near Lake Champlain - pictures of which are found in some of his minor poems. He was a graduate of Middlebury College, where his rank as a student was high.1

The praise accorded to his writings did not deter the poet from following his chosen profession, and through life he made literature only a recreation for idle hours. He was distinguished for his ability at the bar, and was a social favorite. In another State he might have won political distinction, but in Vermont, where he resided until past middle life, he was not in accord with the dominant political party. It was considered one of his jokes to appear occasionally as the Democratic candidate for Governor, and probably he never expected to attain this distinction, though he was personally a popular and admirable candidate.

Saxe wrote a variety of travesties of classic narratives, and some minor satires, together with a large number of ballads, sonnets, epistles, and odes, generally abounding in wit and humor. He was peculiarly felicitous in punning, and in the use of odd expressions. He sometimes affected the archaic style of writing, as in Ye Pedagogue, and Ye Taylor Man. He collected and told in verse a number of pithy narratives from the Orient. In fact, his learning was marvelous in extent, and his versatility surpris

1 The first year of Mr. Saxe's college course was passed at Wesleyan University, at Middletown, Conn., allusions to which may be found in his minor poems.

ing. Among his more extended poems are The Money King, The Proud Miss McBride, and Captain Jones' Misadventure; or, The New Rape of the Lock.

The poems of Saxe were collected and published in 1859. Thirty-three editions were exhausted within ten years, and for a long time thereafter their popularity did not diminish. Critics pronounce the wit of Saxe inferior in kind to that of Holmes and of Lowell, but of its peculiar class he was a master. As a humorist, he resembles Leigh Hunt among the British poets.

The latter life of the poet was not sunshiny. He suffered domestic bereavement, and was severely afflicted by disease. He died in 1887 in Albany, N.Y., where he had resided for a number of years.

In Progress the teacher will find strictures on education which are both entertaining and instructive.

PROGRESS

A SATIRE

In this, our happy and "progressive " age,
When all alike ambitious cares engage;
When beardless boys to sudden sages grow,
And "Miss " her nurse abandons for a beau;
When for their dogmas Nonresistants fight,
When dunces lecture, and when dandies write;
When matrons, seized with oratoric pangs,
Give happy birth to masculine harangues,
And spinsters, trembling for the Nation's fate,
Neglect their stockings to preserve the State;
When critic wits their brazen luster shed
On golden authors whom they never read,
With parrot praise of "Roman grandeur" speak,
And in bad English eulogize the Greek; —
When facts like these no reprehension bring,
May not, uncensured, an Attorney sing?
In sooth he may; and though "unborn" to climb
Parnassus' heights, and "build the lofty rhyme,'

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Though Flaccus 1 fret, and warningly advise
That "middling verses gods and men despise,"
Yet will he sing, to Yankee license true,
In spite of Horace and "Minerva" too!

My theme is PROGRESS,— never-tiring theme
Of prosing dullness, and poetic dream;
Beloved of optimists, who still protest
Whatever happens, happens for the best;
Who prate of "evil" as a thing unknown,
A fancied color, or a seeming tone,
A vague chimera cherished by the dull,
The empty product of an emptier skull.
Expert logicians they!-to show at will,
By ill philosophy, that naught is ill!
Should some sly rogue, the city's constant curse,
Deplete your pocket and relieve your purse,
Or if, approaching with ill-omened tread,

Some bolder burglar break your house and head,
Hold, friend, thy rage! Nay, let the rascal flee;
No evil has been done the world or thee.
Here comes Philosophy, will make it plain,
Thy seeming loss is universal gain!

"Thy heap of gold was clearly grown too great,-
'Twere best the poor should share thy large estate;
While misers gather, that the knaves should steal
Is most conducive to the general weal;

Thus thieves the wrongs of avarice efface,
And stand the friends and stewards of the race;
Thus every moral ill but serves, in fact,

Some other equal ill to counteract."
Sublime Philosophy! Benignant light!
Which sees in every pair of wrongs, a right;
Which finds no evil or in sin or pain,

And proves that Decalogues are writ in vain!

1 Quintus Horatius Flaccus, the Latin lyric poet, commonly known as Horace.

Hail, mighty PROGRESS! Loftiest we find
Thy stalking strides in science of the mind.

What boots it now that Locke was learned and wise?
What boots it now that men have ears and eyes?
"Pure Reason," in their stead, now hears and sees,
And walks apart in stately scorn of these;
Laughs at "experience," spurns "induction " hence,
Scouting "the senses," and transcending sense.
No more shall flippant ignorance inquire

"If German breasts may feel poetic fire,'

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Nor German dullness write ten folios full,
To show, for once, that Dutchmen are not dull.1
For here Philosophy, acute, refined,

Sings all the marvels of the human mind,
In strains so passing "dainty sweet" to hear,
That e'en the nursery turns a ravished ear!
Here Wit and Fancy in scholastic bowers
Twine beauteous wreaths of metaphysic flowers;
Here Speculation pours her dazzling light,
Here grand Invention wings a daring flight,
And soars, ambitious, to the lofty moon,
Whence, haply, freighted with some precious boon,
Some old "Philosophy" in fog incased,

Or new "Religion" for the changing taste,
She straight descends to Learning's blest abodes,
Just simultaneous with the Paris modes!
Here Plato's dogmas eloquently speak,

Not as of yore, in grand and graceful Greek,
But (quite beyond the dreaming sage's hope
Of future glory in his fancy's scope),
Translated down, as by some wizard's touch,
Find “immortality" in good high Dutch!

1 Allusion is here made to the ponderous work of Kramer, a German, which was written in reply to the brief question of Père Bonhours, as to whether a German could be a wit.

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